


Green

by beaubete



Category: Criminal Justice (2008)
Genre: Dark, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, non-consensual group sex, prison rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can mow it, but grass has a way of growing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green

**Author's Note:**

> This one is very dark in a way that's very different from the dark that I usually write. Please please mind the warnings and the tags: this is sweet-faced Ben being horrifically and violently abused.

The first time, Ben fights him.  Hands in his hair, a fist twisting his jumper up and up the middle of his back until it’s knotted between his shoulder blades, until it’s tight, too tight to move, too tight to breathe, too tight to do much more than whimper in pain at the way the bottom edge of the shirt digs into his ribs and the cold floor beneath him feels like ice.  He almost doesn’t notice his trousers being yanked—yes he does, yes he _does_ —until his cock hits the concrete and tries to climb back up inside him, soft and scared.

“Look at him, little grass.  Crying already, and I haven’t even done anything.”  And he hears that voice in his nightmares, sometimes wakes in a cold, sweaty panic that it wasn’t just a dream, and, “C’mon.  C’mon, don’t you want to know?  Don’t you want to know how she felt?  What she felt like when you did it to her, right before you killed her?  Little grass—raped and murdered a girl, and crying like a bitch.”

It’s not—he’s never considered—he doesn’t know which is worse: the fear, the doubt, the lingering sense that he deserves it; it’s almost enough to distract him—no, it’s not, it’s really, really not—from the splitting, cutting pain—his chest aches around a dry sob.  The man laughs.  It’s over quickly because the man is cruel but an idiot, and he can’t think of a way to prolong it once he’s come across the spasming clench of his arsehole, slick and stinging and messy.  

Ben cries that time, pulls himself up to wipe away the blood and the semen and tucks his head beneath the pillow to hide the hot tears that are somehow more shameful than the bruises.

They corner him in his bed the next time, more of them than his fragile, rabbit-beating heart can catch, tug and pull and yank until he’s bruised and hurting and so, so scared.  There’s something animal in him, something that remembers how quick and painless—not that, not painless, but somehow _easy_ —it was the last time, something that deadens his limbs and sends him limp and sprawling.  It could be gentle—could be called gentle, at least—when they pry open his mouth with salty fingers, when they rub his lip between thumb and forefinger and they teach him to suckle like a child, like a lover.  When they teach him to suck cock.

And it’s—he’s seen.  Videos.  Like this, with a pretty girl surrounded by men, because he’s a lad and the others on the football team were lads and sometimes they’d press a memory stick in his hand—“Watch it when you’re alone; she’s fucking choice, my brother.”—or he’d see it on the internet, late at night with his hand around his cock and one ear piqued for Mum’s footsteps.  He’s seen it, okay?  But he’s never imagined—only he’s never been too popular with the girls.  Just a little too shy, just a little too sweet, just a little too something that makes them smile and laugh and send him home, all of them except—

So he knows where this is going, but the rank taste of cock, like salt and piss and sweat and unwashed bodies with nowhere to go but the same dirty rooms, it’s like being slapped in the face.  He gags, feels some of his hair come out when the hand on his head grips him tighter, squeezes rougher, pulls and feeds it into him inch by inch even as he tries to back away.  He retches and for a hot, sick moment he’s sure he’s going to go, but the hand pulls him back, bends his neck until it feels like it may snap and he’s pinned, shuddering and shrinking.  When the nausea passes, he’s put back to it, and when the man in his mouth comes, there’s another.  When that one comes, there’s another.  They take their turns with his mouth, leave him chapped and sore and sick.

The next time, he barely feels it.  Oh, he feels the hot prick of a needle, the sweet and treacly rush of cold in his veins, but he’s ringing around the empty hollow where his mum should have been on the bench, stuck and empty and aching like he’s been split open.  It’s nothing to that, really.  It’s nothing at all, compared to.  Compared to what he.  To the things he can’t remember.  The things he may have—

There are four of them.  Maybe more; he loses track somewhere near the third cock in his arse, shuts down the part of himself that’s able to count these things when he looks up and sees the extra pair of eyes on him, the guard horrified and quiet and walking quick and then quicker away.  Not to the hose, not to the alarm or the office where his coworker is watching the portable telly they’ve got, the screen flashing grey and blue through the glass, but to another part of the room as the thick wet slaps of bodies echoes in the hollow space.  He doesn’t see anything, obviously not, but there are hungry eyes, hissed whispers of suggestions coming from starving men who watch these lucky few devouring a meal.

They touch him that time, slide their hands down his flank and stroke him off because it’s funny, seeing him squirm and fight and cry, watching him push against the rush of pleasure and ultimately succumb, dripping down his thighs stained and despoiled.  They leave him shaking with cold and exhaustion and the elated rush of junk in his system, and he lays in the pile of his own mess there on the shower tiles until the guards threaten to take him to the nurse.  He doesn’t fancy being hosed down, so he crawls his way to standing and washes it all away.

And then the verdict comes.  He doesn’t know, now, doesn’t know if he did it or not—everyone thinks he did, his own mum thinks he did, so maybe he did.  Maybe he must have done—but it’s easier not to care.  The water in the kitchens is too hot and he scalds his fingers, the water in the showers is too cold and he freezes his bollocks off.  The needles are too sharp and the smoke is, too, like inhaling clouds of glass shards, but when he’s stinging from such little things it’s hard to focus on the larger pains.  Hard to focus on the hard chill beneath his knees—“You can kneel on the pillow if you like.” “And what will that cost me?”—and hard to focus on the thick heat on his tongue, the hands in his hair that direct him faster and slower, the jeers because power in this place can do a lot of things but it can’t close doors that are on automatic timers.  

He gets used to it, and that’s the part that hurts the worst in his hard little cot.  His fingers knot in the thin sheets but he doesn’t cry.

And he asks for it once.  Only once.  Pays his due with his hands and his arse and his mouth, acts like he wants it and like they’re doing him a favour.  Gives it good, and they drop the little bundle wrapped in plastic between his knees as he spits into his hand and drools white from the palm.  They won’t make eye contact, and in that moment, he knows he isn’t grass anymore—there’s nothing about him to be mowed short.  He knows what it is to win.


End file.
